


Ghosts of Paris Past

by rowofstars



Series: Ghosts of Paris [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Post-Episode AU: s02e13 Doomsday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-05
Updated: 2009-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They spend their time chasing the ghosts of what could have been. An AU Ten/Rose reunion. Written for challenge #10 at <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/">then_theres_us</a> .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of Paris Past

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second offering in this challenge. The prompts are photographs and for this fic I chose the one below. It's unbeta'd as I finished it around midnight. Any mistakes are my own, if you see any glaring ones, let me know. Now I'm off to a football game!

The last time Rose was in Paris there was a revolution.

It was 2189 instead of 1789, and rebellion took the form of drinking and dancing rather than marching and executions. When they tired of partying, the Doctor secured a flat for the night with a reasonable view of the Eiffel Tower, and together they watched the French president sign his resignation with a feather boa looped around his neck.

Afterward they had tarts sprinkled with coconut, and too much champagne.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rose sits in the dark in a short upholstered chair, with her arms looped around her bare knees. She stares out the window, idly picking at a button on the cuff of her white blouse. The Paris streets are all but deserted in the light but persistent rain of the early morning. A fog is settling in. It threads through the buildings, sucking out the color, leaving the city gray and naked, plucked from film noir.

A suitcase lays open on the bed, waiting. She needs to finish cleaning up for her return trip this evening but the desire just isn’t there. She hates packing.

It isn’t Torchwood or Vitex that brings her to the City of Lights this time, just the need for escape and solitude, to be somewhere where she can remember how to breathe in her own skin. There are too many ghosts of things past at home.

She stretches her legs and stands, kicking one of a pair of black pumps to the side towards its mate. Leaning against the window frame, her fingertips trail up and down the crisp, unbuttoned edge of her shirt.

A man crosses the street below in long strides, his coat billowing out behind him like a cape. When he reaches the opposite side he stops, turning to look back at the hotel. Rose watches him, unable to see his face, but still with the sense that his eyes are fixed on her. He is still for a few moments. Then as the rain begins to pick up, he runs a hand over his hair and moves on down the street.

He has no umbrella.

She backs away to the safety of the shadows and pulls the curtain closed, suddenly self conscious standing in nothing but her open blouse and knickers. A stack of unsent postcards sits on the bedside table, all of them pictures of the tower. She buys a few every time she comes here, in different gift shops and tourist traps, but never sends them anywhere. They are only for her, reminders of another time and place.

There are ghosts in Paris too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Doctor strolls casually down the street, hands in the pockets of his long coat, ignoring the occasional raindrop. He prefers the city like this, shrouded in clouds and fog, no hint of revolution in the air, just the comfortable complacency of the modern bourgeoisie.

Stopping in front of a pasty shop, he watches an old woman slide trays of wares into glass cases. Behind her is a smiling old man pushing his hands into dough, covered in flour to his elbows. They switch places for a moment, moving around each other with the ease of routine and decades of marriage. The woman looks up and notices the Doctor standing outside, motioning him in with a wave of her hand. He comes out a few minutes later licking chocolate cream filling from his fingers.

He pauses at the end of the block, taking in a familiar sight. Across the street he can see a small park and beyond it, the edge of the Champ de Mars. He looks to the north and though the top of the tower is eclipsed by the weather, he knows the view all the same, remembers it framed by the window of a modest room.

If he closes his eyes he can still hear the music wafting up from the streets through the thin glass.

He knows the building doesn’t exist yet, and won’t for another hundred years, but that doesn’t stop him from walking the extra distance. He also knows he should stop doing this to himself, chasing ghosts and memories.

He steps off the curb and crosses the street in long strides, the wind lifting his coat behind him. The rain is beginning to pick up and the Tardis is at least a quarter mile away. Still, he probably wouldn’t use an umbrella if he had one.

Something makes him stop when he reaches the other side, a chill that isn’t from the weather. Turning, his eyes trail up the rows of windows until he finds one that’s open. A woman stands, leaning to one side, dressed in something that might be white. He can’t tell. It seems the whole world has gone black and white.

He wonders if she’s alone and why. It’s a shame not to share such a beautiful city with someone else.

With a sigh, he runs a hand over his hair and moves on, tossing up a glare as a drop catches the corner of his eye. The liquid trails down his face but he doesn’t wipe it away. As he jogs across the next street, another shiver of memory runs through him.

He tastes coconut and champagne.


End file.
